A WINTER MOOD 221 



age begins. We fasten attributes to 

 things, and hold them there by mere 

 persistency. There is no really dead 

 season; there are no snows so deep but 

 somewhere in the firs the crossbill 

 holds his sign of the sacred legend, no 

 ice so thick but under it the warm 

 current stirs, no age so dreary that love 

 may not quicken it until eternal spring. 

 * # # m 



The first snow fell in the night, not 

 deeply, but tenderly, shielding the 

 newly bared things from the grasp of 

 the ice. It came flake upon flake, 

 clinging, not driving pitiless; begin- 

 ning softly and ending as the late sun 

 pushed through the clouds, and yawned, 

 uncertain whether to rise or to take one 

 more nap, letting his pale hair straggle 

 on the cloud pillows; then succumbing, 

 wrapped the mist once more about 

 him. 



